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Authors: Max Allan Collins
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. .
He quickly turned his back to the newcomers.
But behind him, his sister called out, “Jonathan! Yoo-hoo!”
She’d spotted him. Yoo-hoo indeed.
He turned slowly and did his best to hide his unease, and failing pitifully, thinking, I must have been a right bastard in my previous life, saying, “I swear on our parents’ graves I had no idea he was here!”
O’Connell frowned. “Who was here?”
A figure exploded out of the adjacent room—hurled from there in a blur of tuxedo and brown hair and indignation . . . specifically, the figure of Alex O’Connell.
Jonathan hadn’t seen this, however, having turned his back, as if contemplating ordering another drink.
Nor could he see Rick O’Connell dividing a look-to-kill between Alex, on the floor in a heap getting gaped at by customers, and Jonathan, who also didn’t see his sister, staring at him accusingly.
She demanded of the back of him, “How long has Alex been in China?”
Unaware he’d been busted, Jonathan said, “Alex, in China? I thought he was in America, studying. Are you sure he’s in China?”
O’Connell said, “Pretty sure.”
The couple moved away from Jonathan, just as he turned to see Evy helping Alex up from the nightclub floor. Jonathan closed his eyes, hoping it would all go away.
O’Connell followed his wife over to their wandering boy, whom she was fussing over, brushing him off as Alex stood there frozen in shock at the sight of his parents, who had seemingly materialized before him.
“Mom,” Alex said. “Dad. What are you doing here?”
“Funny thing, kiddo,” O’Connell said. “We were just going to ask you the same thing.”
From the other room bounded a big guy in a brown jacket and khaki trousers, fists balled, eyes narrowed, mouth a violent slash in the midst of several days’ growth of beard. The guy was clearly on the warpath, and zeroing in on Alex.
In a voice more than slightly touched with Irish, the strapping brute called behind him to friends still in the side room. “Be right back, lads! I just need to finish the job I started . . .”
He bore in on Alex, who bunched his shoulders and raised his fists, ready to give back as good as he got; but when the Irishman cocked his arm to pummel the boy, O’Connell caught the man’s fist.
The Irishman spun around, ready to take on a second “job,” but when the two men were face-to-face, their features flashed with mutual recognition.
“Maddog?” O’Connell asked tentatively. “Mad-dog Maguire?”
Maguire frowned. “Ricochet? Ricochet Rick O’Connell?”
“You got old.”
“You didn’t get younger.”
They seemed about to go at it, but instead fell into each other’s arms, hugging, clapping each other on the back, clearly long-lost friends.
They separated, looking each other over, grinning.
O’Connell said, “Will you look at you? You’re even uglier. How the hell’s that possible? How long has it been, anyway?”
“Not so long, lad. Egypt. ’Twenty-three.”
“We were in the French Foreign Legion together,” O’Connell said, turning with a smile to his wife and son. “This damn maniac could land a plane on a postage stamp.”
“They had planes back in those days, Dad?” Alex asked, openly sarcastic. “What, like in King Kong?”
Maguire tossed a thumb at Alex. “This scrapper’s your kid, Rick?”
O’Connell nodded, then glanced over at the entry to the adjacent room, from which had emerged a group of men who were likely rough-and-tumble pilot pals of Maguire’s, clearly wondering why Alex hadn’t been pureed by now.
“As much as I’d like to let you and your boys teach Alex here a valuable lesson,” O’Connell said, “it might tend to—”
“Upset his mother,” Evy said. “Very much.”
And she began brushing the boy off again, to his displeasure.
“Mom, seriously,” Alex said, pulling away. “You’re embarrassing me in front of my new friends.”
That made O’Connell smile, and Maguire,
He quickly turned his back to the newcomers.
But behind him, his sister called out, “Jonathan! Yoo-hoo!”
She’d spotted him. Yoo-hoo indeed.
He turned slowly and did his best to hide his unease, and failing pitifully, thinking, I must have been a right bastard in my previous life, saying, “I swear on our parents’ graves I had no idea he was here!”
O’Connell frowned. “Who was here?”
A figure exploded out of the adjacent room—hurled from there in a blur of tuxedo and brown hair and indignation . . . specifically, the figure of Alex O’Connell.
Jonathan hadn’t seen this, however, having turned his back, as if contemplating ordering another drink.
Nor could he see Rick O’Connell dividing a look-to-kill between Alex, on the floor in a heap getting gaped at by customers, and Jonathan, who also didn’t see his sister, staring at him accusingly.
She demanded of the back of him, “How long has Alex been in China?”
Unaware he’d been busted, Jonathan said, “Alex, in China? I thought he was in America, studying. Are you sure he’s in China?”
O’Connell said, “Pretty sure.”
The couple moved away from Jonathan, just as he turned to see Evy helping Alex up from the nightclub floor. Jonathan closed his eyes, hoping it would all go away.
O’Connell followed his wife over to their wandering boy, whom she was fussing over, brushing him off as Alex stood there frozen in shock at the sight of his parents, who had seemingly materialized before him.
“Mom,” Alex said. “Dad. What are you doing here?”
“Funny thing, kiddo,” O’Connell said. “We were just going to ask you the same thing.”
From the other room bounded a big guy in a brown jacket and khaki trousers, fists balled, eyes narrowed, mouth a violent slash in the midst of several days’ growth of beard. The guy was clearly on the warpath, and zeroing in on Alex.
In a voice more than slightly touched with Irish, the strapping brute called behind him to friends still in the side room. “Be right back, lads! I just need to finish the job I started . . .”
He bore in on Alex, who bunched his shoulders and raised his fists, ready to give back as good as he got; but when the Irishman cocked his arm to pummel the boy, O’Connell caught the man’s fist.
The Irishman spun around, ready to take on a second “job,” but when the two men were face-to-face, their features flashed with mutual recognition.
“Maddog?” O’Connell asked tentatively. “Mad-dog Maguire?”
Maguire frowned. “Ricochet? Ricochet Rick O’Connell?”
“You got old.”
“You didn’t get younger.”
They seemed about to go at it, but instead fell into each other’s arms, hugging, clapping each other on the back, clearly long-lost friends.
They separated, looking each other over, grinning.
O’Connell said, “Will you look at you? You’re even uglier. How the hell’s that possible? How long has it been, anyway?”
“Not so long, lad. Egypt. ’Twenty-three.”
“We were in the French Foreign Legion together,” O’Connell said, turning with a smile to his wife and son. “This damn maniac could land a plane on a postage stamp.”
“They had planes back in those days, Dad?” Alex asked, openly sarcastic. “What, like in King Kong?”
Maguire tossed a thumb at Alex. “This scrapper’s your kid, Rick?”
O’Connell nodded, then glanced over at the entry to the adjacent room, from which had emerged a group of men who were likely rough-and-tumble pilot pals of Maguire’s, clearly wondering why Alex hadn’t been pureed by now.
“As much as I’d like to let you and your boys teach Alex here a valuable lesson,” O’Connell said, “it might tend to—”
“Upset his mother,” Evy said. “Very much.”
And she began brushing the boy off again, to his displeasure.
“Mom, seriously,” Alex said, pulling away. “You’re embarrassing me in front of my new friends.”
That made O’Connell smile, and Maguire,
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